It's Not a Rollercoaster
by CanonAntithesis
Summary: It's REALLY cold in Chicago. What are two mounties willing to do to keep warm?
1. Chapter 1

**It's Not a Rollercoaster**

**but we can still blame it on Canada **

_**A Due South fanfiction**_

**by**

**CanonAntithesis**

Summary: It's REALLY cold in Chicago.

Disclaimer: No copyright infringement is intended. This fanfiction is based upon the Alliance Communications television series _Due South_. All characters and situations other than my own are the sole property of Atlantis Alliance.

**Chapter 1**

A blast of arctic air and snow blew open the door to the 27th Precinct as Constable Benton Fraser helped an elderly woman into the lobby. After Diefenbaker glided through the door, Fraser immediately shut it after struggling against the strong winter wind.

"Right this way, ma'am," he said to the old woman as he ushered her up to the desk sergeant. "This officer should be able to aid you."

"Thank you so much, young man. I don't know what I would have done without you," the elderly woman gushed to the tall Mountie.

"My pleasure, ma'am," the young Canadian replied.

Fraser reached up, by force of habit, for the brim of his Stetson in order to properly tip it to the woman, only to realize that he wasn't wearing it. On this, the coldest day in Chicago history, he was wearing his muskrat fur hat for the second time since coming to Chicago.

The first time he wore it was on the day he met his current supervisor, Inspector Thatcher. In fact, it was at her less than gentle insistence that he do so. Now, however, it was justified.

With real temperatures hovering at twenty-seven degrees below zero and wind chills of negative forty, Fraser felt it was justified. Still… he did miss his Stetson.

As he walked away, he heard the old woman inquire about the status of her Harley which had been demolished by a City of Chicago snowplough.

Upon entering the squad room, Fraser walked immediately to Ray's desk while Diefenbaker made his usual rounds collecting treats from various dependable humans around the large room. Ray wasn't there, so Fraser removed his James Bay storm coat and draped it carefully on the back of the chair. He removed his cap and carefully placed it on his lap and settled down to wait for his friend. They had arranged to meet here, but the rough weather was probably holding him up.

Raised voices from a few desks away quickly caught Fraser's attention.

"Did you actually graduate from high school? Because I find it hard to believe, man." Detective Jack Huey was obviously frustrated with his partner, Thomas Dewey.

Dewey sat slouched down in his office chair with his legs sticking straight out, the high polish of his Italian loafers tapping excitedly on the old, worn floor. Despite the cold weather, he was wearing a forest green dress shirt and tie with a coordinating brown suit jacket to match those expensive shoes.

"I'm just saying," started Dewey, "that I'm pretty sure that's the name of that new rollercoaster at Six Flags. You know, the one where you're tilted face-down for the whole ride."

Huey, who was leaning on the edge of his desk, looked like he was ready to throttle Dewey until he spotted Fraser across the room and called for him to join them.

"Fraser! You've heard of the polar vortex, right?"

"Yes, I have. Why do you ask?" Fraser asked as he arrived at Dewey's desk.

"Because this idiot," Huey explained while throwing a thumb towards his partner to specify to which idiot he was referring, "thinks it's an amusement park ride and I say it's responsible for this crappy weather."

"If I may," Fraser started as he picked up a piece of paper and a pencil from Huey's desk. "I'll explain." He drew a rough sketch of the Northern Hemisphere and added a line starting in Northern Asia and sweeping down to Chicago before heading back north towards Canada's east coast.

"Looks like a giant smiley face," commented Dewey.

"Shush and listen. Maybe you'll learn something," returned Huey.

"A polar vortex is a persistent, large-scale cyclone located near either of the Earth's poles. The polar vortices are located in the middle and upper troposphere and the stratosphere. They surround the polar highs and lie in the wake of the polar front. These cold-core low-pressure areas strengthen in the winter and weaken in the summer due to their reliance upon the temperature differential between the equator and the poles." He continued to add arrows and swirls to the drawing to help the officers understand his explanation. "They usually span less than 620 miles in which the air circulates in a counter-clockwise fashion. As with other cyclones, their rotation is caused by the Coriolis effect. The Arctic vortex in the Northern Hemisphere has two centers, one near Baffin Island, also known as Qikiqtaaluk in Inuktitut, and the other over northeast Siberia."

Fraser paused to glance up at the two detectives. Their eyes were completely glazed over in confusion or lack of interest… or both.

Dewey shook himself out of his stupor and gently elbowed his partner to get his attention. "Hey, when this winter's over, how 'bout we take a Saturday and go to Six Flags?"

Huey nodded slowly, "Sounds like a good plan, man."

Before Constable Fraser could continue with his lecture, Ray came into the squad room, followed closely by a brightly colored Francesca Vecchio. Ray's youngest sister wore a hot pink North Face ski coat and matching hot pink Doc Martin boots. The rest of her wardrobe was obscured due to the piercingly intense pink coat.

"Hiya, Frase. Sorry I'm late. Frannie insisted on coming with me and then, wasn't ready when it was time to leave." He glared at his sister before he added, "Typical."

"Well… in this kind of cold, I'm not taking a chance on getting stuck on some L for hours on end. Oh, good morning, Benton." Francesca's tone had immediately changed from scathing to sultry when she saw the handsome constable.

Just then, Ray spotted Lt Welsh motioning for him to come to his office.

"I'll be right back," he announced, but was pretty sure no one heard him.

Francesca sauntered up to Fraser as her voice dropped conspiratorially, "My, but you do look fine this frigid morning." She placed her palm flat against his wool covered chest and slowly moved it around in circles. "I just love the feel of … red. Makes me want to crawl up inside it with you."

Fraser nervously backed up a half step until he hit the edge of Ray's desk. He placed his hand over hers in an effort to remove it from his chest, but Francesca managed to twist things around and ended up holding his hand in hers in a surprisingly strong grip. She closed what little distance there was between them and, since he was pinned against the desk, there was no retreat.

Francesca's lips were mere inches from Fraser's as she stood on her tiptoes to bring herself face to face with him.

"You know, Benton, I heard an interesting story of survival recently."

Fraser swallowed slowly as he felt her breath on his face. He tried to speak to tell her to stop, but he couldn't get the words out.

She leaned her lower body into his and wiggled as she whispered slowly and seductively, "It seems there was a man and a woman and they were trapped together in the frigid cold with no way to keep warm. No heat, no blankets…" she leaned over to the shell of his ear and whispered, "... nothing. And do you know how they stayed alive, Benton? Can you guess?"

Fraser's eyes were wide with what looked like fright, but he finally found his voice as he replied weakly, "N-n-no. I have no idea."

She brought her mouth back to his as she finished her tale.

"They made love," she whispered against his lips. "They made love and the heat they produced during their lovemaking kept them alive."

Francesca tried to suck his bottom lip into her mouth, but Fraser, using all of his willpower, gently pushed her away a foot or so.

He had to clear his throat before he could speak. "Although that is an interesting story, I'm not sure it would actually be of benefit in a survival situation."

Francesca's glossy lips poked out in a childish pout as she put her hands on her hips, readying herself for battle. However, before she could launch the first salvo, Ray reappeared with Lt Welsh.

"Ah, Miss Vecchio. I believe we have an appointment," announced the lieutenant.

"Lieutenant Welsh!" the flamboyant Italian gushed, "How wonderful to see you again! How's the wife, sir?"

"Well," he started slowly, "since the divorce, she's been doing fine, just fine."

Francesca whipped her head around and glared at Ray. Ray, in his stead, simply shrugged his shoulders and ignored her. He guessed that would be the last time she asked his advice on how to impress the boss.

"So you're here to talk about the civilian aid position…" Welsh said as he escorted Francesca into his office.

"Frase? You ever wonder that maybe there's no God?"

"Why do you ask, Ray?"

"Because if there _is_ a God, Frannie will _not_ get that job."

Turning to Fraser, Vecchio became more serious. "We've got a call down at the Port Authority. Time to suit back up," Ray added as he started pulling on the winter gear he had just taken off.

He stopped short when he saw Fraser's winter hat perched upon the mountie's head. The hat was black wool with brown fur ear and forehead flaps, which were flipped up.

"My God, Benny, what the hell died on top of your head?"

"It's the official cold weather headgear of the RCMP, Ray." Benton grimaced before saying his next sentence, realizing the hazing it would insight from Ray. "It's made of muskrat fur."

"Muskat? That's disgusting. Aren't they like skunks or something?"

"They're actually closer to lemmings."

"But they stink, right? Like skunk."

"I believe they do have a slight musk, hence the name."

Ray leaned slightly toward Fraser before asking, "So, does it smell?" Then he noticed that Fraser's winter parka had a fur-lined hood. He couldn't resist commenting. "The hood's fur too? Holy Toledo, how many muskrats died to keep you warm?"

"This," he fingered the parka's hood, "is made from coyote fur, Ray."

"You Canadians are a brutal people, you know that?"

At the same time Ray placed his own winter hat on his head, a hat colloquially referred to an Elmer Fudd hat, complete with red plaid ear flaps and oversized bill.

Fraser, to his credit, did not reply to Ray's needling.

Instead, he said slowly under his breath, "It's wabbit season, and I'm hunting wabbits."

Ray's eyes narrowed and he asked suspiciously, "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing, Ray."

"Oh, it's something alright."

"You are mistaken. Shouldn't we be leaving now?"

"Yeah, yeah, you're right, but I'm gonna figure that one out."

As they neared the door, they passed by Huey and Dewey, leaning over a map of Six Flags as they continued their argument about the Polar Vortex.

Dewey looked up when he saw Ray and asked, "Hey, Ray? You even hear of the Polar Vortex?"

"Sure, it's that all-wooden coaster at Cedar Point. I rode it last year with my nephew. Don't ever get on a rollercoaster with a kid who just ate a pound of cotton candy." He said, sagely, "Trust me on this one."

Huey and Dewey looked at each other in surprise and simultaneously exclaimed, "Cedar Point!"

"That's why we couldn't find it. I think I got a map in my filing cabinet," said Dewey as he started searching through his old pre-World War II metal cabinet.

"What was that all about?", Ray asked as they walked out the door and headed for the stairs.

"Well, you see, the polar vortex…"

As they exited the front door of the precinct, back into the frigid cold, Vecchio summarized the last three minutes of their conversation.

"So it's not a rollercoaster, but we can still blame it on Canada, right?"

Fraser nodded in agreement, "In a manner of speaking, yes."

After nearly five minutes of listening to Ray first praise and then curse his '71 Buick Riviera, that fine example of classic American automotive supremacy, it finally turned over and the ancient engine started. The blowing snow and buffeting winds made the trip very slow. Thankfully, there weren't many other cars on the street.

As they neared the shore near the Port Authority, they saw a small crowd standing out on the frozen lake. Normally, Lake Michigan would exude an eerie calm on a day this cold. It was surreal - no sound of waves lapping against the barrier, no seagulls loudly searching for their dinner, no shrill steam whistles from a myriad of commercial vessels on the water. In fact, because of the freeze-over, the lake didn't look like a lake at all. It looked like a flat, wintery plain. Today, however, the pair were immediately drawn to the sound of a chainsaw revving in the air.

"This must be the place," commented Ray as he slid the Riv into park, but didn't turn off the ignition. "I'm not taking any chances this time," he said, explaining why he was leaving the car running.

As they approached the crowd, Ray pointed to a man dressed in a heavy parka with a winter cap that looked eerily similar to Fraser's.

"Hey, look, Benny. Maybe _your_ hat and _his_ are related."

"I believe he may be the one who called us."

"Oh, yeah?"

Vecchio took a moment to survey the crowd. There was one man with a chainsaw busily cutting through the ice; there was another man with large ice tongs; there were approximately fifteen people, mostly men shivering in the cold with large towels wrapped around their bodies and bare feet on the frozen lake; there were supporting family members of the shivery people, holding extra blankets and cameras; there was a camera crew from the local ABC affiliate; and finally, there was the man in question. He didn't seem to fit in with the rest of people. And he didn't look at all happy to be there. Even the shivering people seemed excited by the event, whatever it was.

"You might have something there, Benny. Let's go talk to him."

The man with Fraser's hat on his head did not notice the pair approach as he was so completely engrossed in watching the others. The chainsaw wielding man cut loose a section of ice and his assistant quickly plunged the ice tongs into the sides of the large ice block and hauled it out of the water to join three other similar blocks.

"Those people are complete idiots," the man commented to no one in particular.

"I'm with you on that one, buddy," commented Ray.

The man turned in surprise to see Fraser and Vecchio standing next to him.

"Pardon our lack of manners," Fraser said as he brought his hand to the fur brim of his muskrat hat, "I'm Constable Benton Fraser of the RCMP and this is Detective Ray Vecchio of the Chi…"

"You're the police!" the man interrupted excitedly. "What took you so long? They're almost ready to go."

"Go where?" asked Vecchio.

The man pointed frantically at the shivering group of barefooted people huddled together near the rapidly expanding hole.

"Those idiots are members of the Polar Bear Club and they're about to take a Polar Plunge."

"But isn't that what they do? Plunge into cold water, I mean."

"Yes, yes, of course. But this year because of the polar vortex, we've canceled the plunge. They are doing this completely on their own," the man seemed to become more and more agitated as he spoke.

"Excuse me, Mr. …?" Ray prompted the man for his name.

"I'm sorry. My name is Thomas Rainer and I'm the Lakeview Polar Bear Club's attorney."

"Polar bears need attorneys?"

"Of course, no member is allowed to participate in any club activities without signing a legal waiver. The consequences would be disastrous."

"And I assume that these people have not signed the waiver?" Frasier asked as he glanced at the group of people. They were starting to cheer-on the chainsaw operators. The sounds of "Go! Go! Go!" reverberated across the lake.

"That's right. They must sign the waiver and release before each and every plunge and since this year's plunge was canceled, they weren't allowed to sign the waiver. Therefore, they shouldn't be plunging."

"Okay, so what do you expect us to do?" Ray asked in frustration. He just wanted to speed this thing along and get back to the station was getting cold.

"Stop them! March out there and send them on their way." Mr. Rainer punctuated his remark by jabbing a mitten covered hand in the direction of the crowd.

Ray shook his head from side to side in resignation. For a native-born Chicagoan, he hated the cold and really wished this dispute could be settled inside a warm coffee shop.

"Look, Mr. Rainer, you're right that those people are idiots." Vecchio paused for dramatic effect as he reached into the inner linings of his coat and produced a piece of paper. "However, these particular idiots have a permit issued by the City of Chicago, so we can't stop them."

The irate lawyer stamped his foot on the ice in frustration. However, before he could continue with his tirade, screams erupted from the makeshift swimming hole. The two policemen reacted immediately and ran toward the hole, only to realize that these were screams of … _freezing your gonads off and needing to scream about it_, not screams of a police nature.

The unauthorized Polar Bears splashed around in the water for approximately ten seconds before the most weak-hearted among them began to get out and head immediately towards their warm vehicles. Fraser and Vecchio stood with the distressed lawyer and watched the spectacle. Mr. Rainer, realizing that he couldn't do anything else, decided to enjoy the event by joining the policemen in making fun of the swimmers. Cold water did humorous things to the male body, especially when that body was clad in only a Speedo. Of course, cold water also did wonderful things to the female body as all three men could agree.

There were only about three people left in the water went a scream with a decidedly different pitch pierced the air. The two policemen, working under the assumption of 'fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me', did not react as quickly as before.

However, Vecchio quickly realized that something serious was happening, based on the number of gasps and murmurs and the crowd which now completely surrounded the hole. With his badge held up in front of him like a lantern on a dark night, the detective pushed his way through the throng of onlookers until he and Fraser could clearly see the water.

There, in the frigidly cold waters of the makeshift swimming hole, floated the blue and bloated body of a completely naked woman. She was floating face-down in the water with tendrils of long blonde hair billowing out around her head.

Ray called back to the lawyer, "Wow, that'll keep'em outta the water. Right, Rainer?"

He turned to look for the distraught lawyer, only to see him lying flat on his back on the snow covered lake. He had fainted.

Fraser drew Vecchio's attention back to the matter at hand when he leaned toward his friend and whispered, "Look at her ankle, Ray."

"I never pictured you as a leg man, Frase."

"The rope, Ray. The body was held under the water," Fraser explained as he pointed to the bright yellow nylon rope tied around the woman's ankle.

"Until that rope was cut, right? You mean somebody anchored that body down under the water, which was also under eighteen inches of ice, by the way, directly under where these idiots decide to cut a hole in the lake and go for a dip? Isn't that sort of far fetched, even for one of our cases?"

"Perhaps, but that's not all, Ray," Fraser continued, "I think we need to inform Inspector Thatcher of this death."

"Why's that?"

"She may very well have been a Canadian citizen," Fraser commented as he stood staring at the body floating gently in the icy water. Her long blonde hair already starting to form ice crystals.

Ray looked down at the dead woman and added his speculation.

"Or… she might just be a really big hockey fan."

The two men looked at each other and then simultaneously turned back to the body. The sound of police cars could be heard in the distance. One of the witnesses must have called the police. However, the detective and the mountie didn't acknowledge them as they continued to stare down at the woman's lower back. She had a large tramp stamp of a Canadian maple leaf.

* TBC *

Author's Notes

This is my first Due South story and it's not finished yet, but I wanted to get it up before the spring thaw. I'm a big fan of Fraser/Thatcher and she'll be showing up in chapter 2.

Oh, RCMP does use a lot of animal fur in their uniforms. All that muskat and coyote stuff is absolutely true. I did a bit of research.

Hope the few Due South fans out there enjoy this. If you did, please take the time to let me know.

11/11


	2. Chapter 2

**It's Not a Roller****c****oaster**

**but we can still blame it on Canada **

_**A Due South fanfiction**_

**by**

**CanonAntithesis**

Disclaimer: See chapter one.

**Chapter 2**

Inspector Margaret Thatcher thought living in the states would mean an end to those ungodly Canadian winters. One of her requirements for an assignment with the RCMP was that it NOT have a line of electrical plugs hanging in every parking lot to keep a car's engine block warm enough that it didn't freeze solid. This winter was as bad as any she had experienced in Ottawa. Maybe for her next assignment, she could try for Vancouver. Of course, she would need to not make a mess of this assignment first. Constable Benton Fraser made that goal a little trying at times.

Winston Churchill once stated about Russia that it was "a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma; but perhaps there is a key". Benton Fraser was her Russia and she had no clue where to find that key. They might have almost found it together on the train, but then she stupidly snapped to her senses. She was a female inspector in the RCMP, still a rarity even in the 1990's. It simply would not do for her to lose her head (or more accurately, her heart) to a subordinate, particularly a constable, the lowest rank in the service. What had she been thinking when they kissed on top of that runaway train?

"Damn!", Thatcher exclaimed as she tried to clear her windshield by squirting wiper fluid on the snow and slush covering the glass.

Nothing happened. Nothing happened because the idiot mechanic who serviced her car in the fall assured her that this particular wiper fluid would be sufficient for a Chicago winter. Well, it wasn't. It was frozen and as a result, she could barely see where she was going.

When Fraser called using Vecchio's cellphone to tell her about a potential Canadian connection to a murder those two nimrods stumbled across, Meg had immediately sprang into action. She commanded Turnbull to rearrange her schedule so she could make it to the crime scene. If the truth be told, her days, lately, had been one boring event after the other, separated by odd moments of frozen fingers and toes when a meeting with one financial entity or the other required her to leave the warmth of the consulate.

She arrived at Oak Street Beach and then spent another ten minutes trying to find a parking spot. She remembered coming here last summer, her first summer in Chicago. It was so blessedly hot. This was one of her favorite places in the city, despite the tremendous crowds during those gloriously warm summer days. Despite the bitter weather, today was no different. The place was swarming with police, TV cameras, and insane Chicagoans who had nothing better to do on the coldest day in Chicago history. Finally, she managed to find a parking garage a block away. Normally, she would be wearing a business suit and probably freezing her butt off. However, late this afternoon she had to attend a function at the Mexican Embassy and, in an effort to dissuade the Consul General's wandering hands, she was wearing the dress uniform with its iconic jacket of red serge and blue wool breeches with yellow stripe. And due to this insane weather, she had opted for the winter parka and fur cap. It wasn't fashionable by any stretch of the imagination, but today was not a day for fashion.

When she finally arrived at the frozen lake, the Chicago police had the area blocked off with bright yellow barricade tape proclaiming "Police Line: Do Not Cross". As she approached, Thatcher saw Fraser and that irritating Detective Vecchio standing next to a cloth draped mound, which was rapidly becoming covered with newly fallen snow. She presumed this mound was the body she was there to see. The two men were in deep conversation with a third person who was so thickly covered in winter clothing that she couldn't tell if the person was male or female.

"This is the coldest I have ever been in my entire life," moaned Ray as he swayed slightly in the blustery wind. "I swear it's dropped twenty degrees since we got here."

Frozen Lake Michigan offered little protection from the elements. The wind seemed to whip first this way and then that, as if the wind, itself, was trying to personally torment them.

"Taking into consideration the wind chill, it feels like −40° out here on the lake," Fraser stated authoritatively.

"Is that Fahrenheit or Celsius?" asked Ray.

"It doesn't matter. It's the same," answered the mountie.

"You're kidding? All this time I thought they were different. If they're the same, then why have two scales? This is such a confusing day."

"He means that −40° is where the Fahrenheit and Celsius scales intersect," stated the well-wrapped man who had just walked up. "Hello, I'm Mort Gustafson. I'm from the ME's office and I've been assigned this case." Although his voice was slightly muffled through the thick scarf which encircled his face, the two police officers understood him perfectly well.

"Who'd you piss off, Mort?" quipped Ray. "It's colder than a witch's tit out here."

"Indeed," Gustafson inhaled slowly through his scarf.

"Dr. Gustafson," Fraser said politely, as he proceeded to introduce himself and Ray.

Just then, the wind shifted and Benton caught a whiff of a very familiar and pleasant scent in the air. Without another word, he walked away from the men and headed directly towards Inspector Thatcher who was standing at the edge of the cordoned off area.

"Vecchio, you say? That's Italian for old. Did you know that? But of course you did. After all, you're Italian too, right? Puccini is one of my favorite Italian composers."

Then the doctor did a most peculiar thing, he started singing in Italian, more precisely, Italian opera. Ray looked around frantically for Fraser, only to see him running across the lake toward Thatcher who'd finally arrived.

_How could Fraser leave him alone with this loon?_

"O mio babbino caro,

mi piace, è bello, bello.

Vo'andare in Porta Rossa,

a comperar l'anello!

Sì, sì, ci voglio andare!

e se l'amassi indarno,

andrei sul Ponte Vecchio,

ma per buttarmi in Arno!..."

Meg saw Fraser lift his head and sniff the air, moving to zero in on some unseen odor until he turned directly toward her. Their eyes locked momentarily until Meg broke the moment with a sardonic lift of her left eyebrow.

_That man was so infuriating. He had smelled her. From across a frozen lake with scores of people roaming around, he had picked out her scent._

Fraser quickly ran across the snow-covered lake toward her and lifted the barricade tape so she could enter the crime scene.

"Inspector," Fraser said in greeting, "so good of you to join us so quickly, sir."

She ducked under the tape and he gallantly offered her his hand. She nodded to him curtly as she accepted his help.

"Constable," Thatcher said as a terse greeting. "Well, let's not just stand around freezing all day. Show me this supposed Canadian."

"Yes, sir. Right this way."

However, neither of them moved until Thatcher glanced down, drawing Fraser's attention to the fact that he was still holding her hand. His already flushed-with-cold cheeks turned a brighter shade of pink and he immediately apologized as he dropped her glove-covered hand. Even through layers of Thinsulate, she felt an instant loss of heat when his hand left hers.

The two mounties approached just as the doctor was finishing his aria.

"...Babbo, pietà, pietà!

Babbo, pietà, pietà!"

"Thank God you're back, Benny," Ray ran over to greet Fraser as if he was his long lost brother. He thumbed back in the direction of the doctor, "That guy's a whack job. And, oh my God, you two look like matching bookends."

Ignoring Ray's non sequitur comment, Fraser said, "Nonsense, Ray. That's an aria from Puccino's Gianni Schicchi. I assume he chose that song because of its reference to Ponte Vecchio since it contains your name."

"Yeah, he said something about that right before he went off on that opera thing."

"From what I heard, Ray, I think he did a remarkable job ... considering."

"Considering what? That he's a lunatic?"

"No, detective," interjected Thatcher, "Considering he's a man. That aria is traditionally sung by a soprano."

"That's right. It's one of Puccino's most recognizable pieces," added Fraser.

"Ah, two lovers..." Gustafson addressed the two mounties as he walked over to join them.

Thatcher and Fraser both flushed furiously and simultaneously stepped away from each other when they realized they were standing shoulder to shoulder.

"...of Italian opera," finished the good doctor. "I'm Mort Gustafson, from the Medical Examiner's Office," he said as he held out a mittened hand to Thatcher.

The Inspector cleared her throat as she gathered herself together and nodded to the doctor. "Meg Thatcher, Liaison Officer, Canadian Consulate."

"Now..." Gustafson rubbed his hands together briskly. "Let's see what we have here before I freeze to death."

He lifted back the cloth to reveal the naked body of a young woman splayed out on the snow. She was blue and slightly bloated and the mere sight of her sent a chill down Meg's spine. After swallowing the sudden build-up of saliva in her mouth, the Inspector in her started to visually examine the body. That's when she noticed the maple leaf tattoo on her lower spine. She supposed that was why they called her. It seemed like a stretch to her, but if she had learned one thing in working with Benton Fraser it was that he had remarkable instincts.

"Help me turn her over," commanded Gustafson.

Fraser reacted quickly, while Vecchio grumbled but helped nonetheless. They turned the woman's body over and Vecchio was the first to react.

"Whoa." Ray couldn't help his reaction. "Is that normal for Canadian babes?" Surprisingly, he directed his question to Inspector Thatcher.

"Excuse me?" she snapped.

Ray flushed at the intensity of her glare. "Well… you know… her private … area. Is that a common thing for women in Canada to do to themselves?"

Now it was Thatcher's turn to blush. "How the hell should I know?"

"Well, you're a Canadian woman, right?" He phrased the question in such a way that it appeared that he wasn't actually sure if she was a woman _or_ a Canadian.

However, it was Fraser who answered his question.

"Actually, I believe it is more common in Brazil, hence the name."

"What name?" 

"It's commonly known as a Brazilian wax, Ray."

"Oh, yeah? And which of your grandmother's books did you read _that_ in?"

"Excuse me, but would anyone care to know my opinion?"

All three of them turned to the doctor who was still crouched next to the body. He now had his mittens off and was starting to look very cold.

"You know about Brazilian waxes?" asked Vecchio.

"I was referring to the victim," Gustafson said, trying to bring the focus back to the question at hand. "So you say she was held under the water, presumably by the rope around her ankle?"

Fraser answered, "That is correct. We believe that one of the swimmers cut the rope and released the body."

"Swimmers?" asked Thatcher.

Vecchio, who was finally starting to focus on more than the dead woman's nether regions, answered. "Yeah, a bunch of nuts who like to swim in freezing water. We've got them all down at the station for questioning."

"Well, I'll be able to tell more once I have her on the table, but I'm guessing she's been dead for at least a week or so."

"A week?" exclaimed Vecchio. "How's that?"

"When a cadaver goes in the water, the air in the lungs start to be replaced with water, causing the body to sink. Once submerged, the body stays underwater until the bacteria in the intestines and chest cavity produce enough gas—methane, hydrogen sulfide, and carbon dioxide—to float it to the surface like a balloon."

"Except that this body was tied down," observed Thatcher.

"Correct," agreed the doctor.

"So, did she drown?" Vecchio asked.

"I won't know for sure until I examine her, but I'd have to say that the bullets probably were a contributing factor."

"Bullets? What bullets?" Vecchio's raised voice came out in an embarrassing squeak.

"They're difficult to see because of the body's bloating, but there are two distinct holes here … and here," Doctor Gustafson said as he pointed with a ruler to her upper chest and lower stomach.

With that, Gustafson stood and started to pull his mittens back on.

"I'm ready to transport her now. I should be able to start the autopsy later today. I assume you'll want to be there."

"Yeah, yeah… we'll be there. Just give me a call. Okay, Doc?"

The medical personnel quickly gathered up the body and placed it in a black body bag and carried it quickly to the nearby ambulance. The doctor followed gratefully behind them.

Vecchio turned to the two mounties.

"Well, I gotta get back to the station and oversee all those frozen witnesses and see if one of them is our killer. Could you check with the Port Authority and see if they have any video of the area? They should be expecting you." the detective directed the question to Fraser, assuming that the inspector would be going back to the warmth of the consulate.

Fraser nodded in agreement, but Thatcher spoke first.

"I'll go with Fraser. That way he'll have a ride to the ME's office. You can call me when you find out the time of the autopsy. We'll meet you there." She handed him her business card. "My cell number's on there."

The two men stared at her in surprise.

"What? If she really is a Canadian citizen, it's my duty to help find her killer."

"Oh, okay. Umm…" Ray started to dig around in his pocket until he came up with an old 7-11 receipt. It took another half minute to find a pen, but he was finally able to hand her his phone number, albeit wrinkled and slightly smeared.

Vecchio clapped his hands together with loud bang.

"Alright, people. Let's get going."

As Vecchio walked away, he heard the Dragon Lady ask Fraser, "What's with the Elmer Fudd hat?"

"I apologize for disrupting your day, Inspector."

Benton Fraser sat ramrod straight in Inspector Thatcher's immaculate Lexus LS 400. Although they were meant to be a luxurious amenity, he found the heated leather seat a bit disconcerting. It was as if some unknown person had just vacated the seat and he was absorbing that person's body heat. He gripped his muskrat fur cap tightly, but it wasn't helping. It was his habit to constantly worry his Stetson around and around in his hands. It seemed to be therapeutic and soothing in every manner of tense situations. Unfortunately, the muskrat cap brought no comfort whatsoever.

"It's not a problem. The day looked to be quite boring," Thatcher replied as she expertly maneuvered the vehicle out of the parking garage and back out onto the snow packed streets.

In less than two blocks, she slammed her foot on the brakes simultaneously as her hand hit the car horn when a city trash truck barreled out in front of them.

"Crazy American driver!"

Even though Benton was a perfectly adequate driver, he preferred the wide open spaces of western Canada, rather than the tense city driving of Chicago. In fact, he longed for just such solitude right now.

Once they started moving again and Benton's heart had stopped pounding in his chest, he decided to try and continue the conversation with his superior. He seemed to find himself unusually nervous around her and this erratic car ride wasn't helping things.

"Umm, I doubt an afternoon viewing video surveillance tapes will be what one would call exciting."

"You haven't met the new Mexican Consul General. Trust me, a little boredom will be a welcome change from having to constantly remove his hand from my knee. Why do you think I wore the Red Serge?"

She stopped the car at a traffic light and Benton took the opportunity to tell her, "Red suits you."

Everytime he said those words, Thatcher's heart skipped a beat. Her head tipped to the side, causing her mass of dark hair to fall over the right side of her face, thereby hiding the bashful smile which came unbidden.

Without over thinking his actions or even thinking at all, for that matter, he reached over and gently swept her hair back over her ear.

"You need a hairpin," he said softly.

She turned to look at him, which was a mistake. It was always very difficult to concentrate on anything other than those bedroom blue eyes when she looked at him.

"I seem to have misplaced them all."

They found themselves drawing closer and closer together until their lips were only centimeters apart. Meg automatically tilted her head to the side and parted her lips in anticipation of...

The blare of the car horn caused them to jump apart. The light had turned to green and an angry American driver was telling them in no uncertain terms that he was tired of waiting.

Thatcher immediately gunned the engine and the Lexus leapt into traffic. Fraser sat back in the warm seat and stared straight ahead, afraid to look in her direction.

The rest of the trip went by in an awkward silence until they, at last, arrived at the Illinois International Port District, or as it was known colloquially, the Port Authority. Because of the constantly accumulating snowfall this winter, parking on the street was nonexistent. So for the second time in one day, Meg found herself searching for an accessible parking garage. She was starting to long for her reserved spot back at the consulate.

They pulled into the closest municipal parking garage and found an empty slot below ground level. She quickly pulled her car in. Meg would never park in such an isolated spot if she was alone. However, having Fraser with her made her feel very safe and protected, even if she would never admit it to him. She allowed him to take control while they were inside the dark garage. He opened and closed the car door for her, escorted her to the elevator and made sure she safely exited the garage.

**TBC**

**Author's Notes:**

My first love has always been Star Trek and I find that writing dialogue for Fraser involves the same thought processes as writing for a Star Trek Vulcan.

Live Long and Prosper.

Please, Please, Please… if you're out there and you're reading this, let me know by throwing me a review.

9


	3. Chapter 3

**It's Not a Rollercoaster**

**but we can still blame it on Canada **

_**A Due South fanfiction**_

**by**

**CanonAntithesis**

Disclaimer: See chapter one.

**Chapter 3**

Detective Raymond Vecchio strutted toward the Violent Crimes Division fully prepared to play the peacock to a room full of adoring hens. After over ten years on the force, he was finally getting somewhere. As morbid as it sounded, this murder would do great things for his career. He was going to be in charge of a major investigation. He had already removed his big winter parka and was smoothing out his newest Armani suit. What he saw when he entered the large open office, however, caused his metaphorical feathers to droop and fall to the floor.

The room was filled to the brim which surprised Ray, considering they only sent about twenty-five people down here to be questioned. Even so, there must be over seventy-five extra people crammed into a space which normally accommodated less than half that. And they were all talking, shouting actually, at the same time. He recognized many of them, the ones who were sitting wrapped in damp towels and shivering. Other he recognized by their demeanor, the hawk-like, hunger in the eyes. These were the lawyers. Others were concerned family members and reporters looking for a hot (pardon the expression) story. Was one of these people a murderer?

All the screaming and chaos reminded Ray of his last Vecchio family dinner. He suddenly decided that he didn't want to be in charge of a major investigation after all. So before anyone saw him, he turned to leave … and smacked right into Detective Dewey, who was carrying a cardboard takeout carrier in each hand. They were both full of white styrofoam coffee cups and said coffee was now all over imported Italian blazer … and dripping down his pants … and into his boots … and forming a puddle on the floor.

Dewey's partner, Huey, was right behind him, also heavily laden with hot caffeinated goodness. Luckily, he was able to stop before this small spill dominoed into a major disaster.

Francesca appeared from the crowd and took the unspilled coffee from Huey and immediately turned on her brother.

"What the hell are you doin', Ray? I am NOT catching flak from those people because you spilled all their coffee. And you two", she snapped at Huey and Dewey, "here's the next order and make sure you tell them _soy_ this time. I'm not taking responsibility for somebody swelling up and dying from drinking cow's milk. Got it?"

"Yes, ma'am," the two detectives replied in unison before turning and leaving the room.

She turned back to Ray and added, "And you… you owe me $20 for that coffee you're wearin'."

"$20?" Ray squeaked. "What kind of coffee costs $20?"

"It's basic economics, Ray. Supply and demand."

"Wait a minute. You're charging them? We _give_ the coffee away."

"When opportunity freezes its butt off in the police station for hours, I seize it."

"Does Welsh know about this, Frannie?"

Instead of answering, she picked out one of the cups from the carrier, read the side of the cup, and called out, "Lieutenant Welsh? Here's your decaf with two saccharins, sir."

As the hot coffee seemed to seep into his very pores, Ray's one overriding thought was, "And to think, this is the first time I've been warm all day."

Before he could try to sneak out again, Lt Welsh spotted him and weaved his way over while carefully carrying his styrofoam cup up above his head to protect it.

"Vecchio! Is this your doing?"

"Umm…"

"Come with me," Welsh demanded as he threaded his way back through the crowd to the seclusion of his office.

The two mounties entered the Port District building and Inspector Thatcher took charge, walking to the information desk and making her presence known.

"We're investigating a murder. The body was discovered at Oak Street Beach and we'd like to review any surveillance video you have of the area for the past ten days."

A weary face peered back at them from behind a window. They were completely separated by very thick glass which made one think of a prison visitation room rather that a government entity which regulated naval traffic.

The sallow faced woman behind the glass motioned to the tiny opening in the window and then touched her ear to indicate that she didn't hear them before.

Fraser amiably bent his tall frame down to the little window and tried to repeat the Inspector's request, but the woman interrupted him.

"Are you two Russian?" the attendant shouted back in a carcinogen-filled voice as she eyed their muskrat caps and arctic parkas.

"No, ma'am," replied Fraser, nonplused, "We're Canadian."

"Then, why are you dressed like Cossacks?" Her gravelly voice croaked out.

"This is the winter uniform of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, ma'am."

"Mounties? Like Dudley Do-Right?"

Thatcher had had enough. She pushed Fraser out of the way and lowered her face down to the little window.

"Is there anyone else we could speak with?"

"You've got to be kidding. It's 40 degrees below zero out there. The only people who bothered to come in today are those of us who ain't got no more leave to use."

Thatcher threw her hands up in defeat. "I give up."

Fraser moved back in position at the window and tried again.

"Excuse me, ma'am. I believe you should be expecting us. Did Detective Vecchio ca…"

"Poco Raymundo?" The older woman's demeanor completely transformed as her voice took on a lyrical quality when she spoke her native Italian. She smiled brightly at Benton and a little twinkle lit up in her eyes. "Why didn't you say so in the first place? I'm his Zia Sophia. His mamma and me, we're like sisters. I practically raised little Ray."

She reached her hand under the desk and a door at the end of the room opened automatically.

"Go through there. I'll come around and meet you."

"Thank you, kindly," Fraser said as he followed Inspector Thatcher to the now open door.

After thirty minutes of listening to the wonders of Vecchio as a child, Thatcher found she actually missed the grumpy old woman who wanted to know if they were Cossacks. Fraser, of course, was the poster child for Canadian politeness. He wasn't just Canadian; he was super Canadian.

"Thank you kindly, Sophia," Fraser said for the fourth time as the now helpful clerk brought in another cart loaded with VHS tapes.

Ray's Aunt Sophia had sequestered them in a small room with a table, two chairs, a VHS player and a tiny television. After spending the previous hour freezing in various parts of the city, it was actually stiflingly hot in here. Fraser had stripped down to his red union suit and uniform breeches, while Thatcher wore only her white uniform shirt and breeches. Their winter gear was neatly stacked in a corner of the small room.

"Not a problem, Benito. You're just a lucky boy because this week it's so cold that all the cameras quit working. Just let me know if I can help more," cooed the older woman before she promptly left the room.

Thatcher watched the door close and commented to Fraser, "It may just be my imagination, but I swear that woman did not have an Italian accent when we first came in."

"Perhaps she didn't feel comfortable speaking with her natural accent when we were strangers."

"Oh right, _Benito_. I forgot how close the two of you have become." Her voice sounded petty, even to her, but she didn't care.

How was it that no matter the circumstances, women of all ages seemed to swoon at Benton Fraser's feet? Even grumpy civil servants whose lungs were coated with pre-cancerous polyps weren't able to control themselves around him. Once he flashed that sparkling smile at them and they got a close-up look at his heartbreakingly beautiful blue eyes, they were his.

She couldn't blame them. His smile _was_ beautiful and when he flashed it in your direction, you felt like you were on top of the world. And his eyes… the way they drooped ever so slightly when he was tired or concentrating on something which required all of his attention was the sexiest thing she had ever seen. This whole phenomenon was made more so by the fact that Fraser honestly had no idea how damn sexy he actually was.

Fraser immediately started sorting through the latest delivery of surveillance tapes. He had quickly deciphered the undecipherable codes they used to identify the location and time of each tape and was able to greatly narrow down the amount of video they would have to view.

"I guess we should get started with these tapes. It appears to be many hours of work."

Just then, Thatcher's phone started ringing. She brightened immediately. Perhaps it was Vecchio and they would get to pawn this tedious chore off on some underling while she and Fraser attended the autopsy.

It was with genuine disappointment when she recognized the phone number as belonging to the consulate.

"Thatcher, here … Oh ... yes … yes, I understand. … No, Turnbull, you aren't in trouble. … Yes, I realize you didn't know … Stop grovelling, Turnbull … I'll be there as quickly as possible … Yes, I'll go straight to the event. … Correct."

She closed her phone with a sigh and turned to face Fraser who was frantically not listening to her conversation.

"That was Turnbull. It seems I can't get out of the Mexican reception without causing an international incident … or so we've been told."

As she spoke, Thatcher started pulling on her red tunic and parka as she readied herself for the long walk back to her car.

"I'll call Vecchio and have him send someone to pick you up for the autopsy."

"Are you sure you wouldn't prefer that I accompany you, Inspector? After all, I am the Deputy Liaison Officer … and perhaps, I could offer some assistance in dealing with the Consul General," Fraser offered.

Thatcher noted an odd inflection in his voice. Was it possible that he was jealous of this self-described Mexican Don Juan? She had to suppress the smile that immediately wanted to jump to her lips. While she would actually love to have him on her arm at the afternoon's event, the needs of the public outweighed her own personal problems.

"That's not necessary, Constable. Finding the killer is more important than my issues with my Mexican counterpart. I'll be fine."

"I was never worried about you, sir. It was the Consul General for whom I had concerns."

As Ray trailed Lt Welsh across the room, he spied a towel lying on an empty desk and snagged it for himself. He immediately started trying to soak up the coffee which had already seeped into every nook and cranny he possessed. The worst part was the squish, squish, squish sound he made with every step he took. Absentmindedly, he looked down at the towel and noticed that it still had the price tag on it and immediately wondered how much Frannie was charging for it.

People sat in every available chair and many stood or sat on the floor. At every desk also sat a police officer asking them some preliminary questions. Each and every one of them had an identical expression of boredom on his face.

He followed Welsh into his office and immediately noticed that there was nowhere to sit. Ray figured someone had removed the lieutenant's chairs to use for the interviews.

Ray was reminded of something he once read in the Sunday Funnies.

_Doing a good job around here is like wetting your pants in a dark suit; you get a warm feeling, but nobody notices._

Well, the warm feeling had faded, quite literally, and he was starting to feel as cold as those swimmers in their wet bathing suits sitting out in the office. No wonder they paid out their noses for a cup of coffee.

"Okay, Vecchio. Care to enlighten me about what's going on IN MY SQUAD ROOM?"

"Well, sir. You know about the body at the lake, right?"

"And how, exactly, would I know about that? Was it from the phone call I received from you before all these people started showing up IN MY SQUAD ROOM?"

"Ummm, no, sir. We were a little busy with the body and all and then, we, um, had to wait for the Inspector."

"What inspector?"

"Inspector Thatcher, sir."

"What do the Canadians have to do with any of this?" His voice was rising in volume.

"Fraser believes... well, actually, I do, too... that the woman is Canadian."

"Of course, she's Canadian. She's the _Canadian_ Consulate's Liaison Officer."

Vecchio's brows knitted for an instant, before he realized Welsh's mistake. "Oh, not that woman, sir. The dead woman. That is, the body is a woman. The dead body, that is." He then inhaled deeply and clamped his mouth firmly shut, realizing that he was starting to babble.

Welsh was also breathing deeply and, with his eyes shut, appeared to be praying. He took a sip of his coffee and quickly pulled it away with an audible "bleh" sound. He swiftly dropped the cup into his trashcan. Unfortunately, Ray was standing next to that trashcan and the mostly full cup of cold coffee splashed out directly onto his pants.

Given the option, Ray preferred being doused with hot coffee.

"Would you like me to get you another cup, Lieutenant?"

"No, Vecchio. I can't afford it. So, tell me exactly what's going on here, okay?"

"Yes, sir. You see when we arrived at the lake this morning…"

Ray's phone started ringing in his pocket, but the look on Welsh's face told him that touching that phone would be detrimental to his career and possibly, his health. He let the call go to voicemail.

Thatcher walked out of the building with a smile on her face and a lightness to her gait. She and Fraser were getting along remarkably well. Before that rude Chicago driver interrupted their moment, she had already decided that she would not order Fraser to forget the kiss this time. In fact, she may even order him to remember the previous one on that runaway train.

It was with these thoughts that she stepped out of the tiny elevator and entered the sub-basement level of the darkened parking garage. As she rounded a corner, she gave a secret sigh of relief as she spotted her car at the other end of this row of vehicles. Despite the fact that she was a professional law enforcement officer, she was also a woman living alone in a crime-ridden American city. It would give any Canadian pause.

Thinking of crime reminded her that she needed to call Detective Vecchio to let him know that Fraser would need a ride to the Medical Examiner's office.

She took off her gloves, pinning them under her armpit, and pulled out her small Nokia cell phone. She then dug in her pocket until she found the receipt with Vecchio's number on it. Just as she had the number entered and pressed the icon of a green telephone handset, Thatcher suddenly heard screaming and loud clanking sounds coming from the stairwell. She dropped the phone back in her coat pocket just as a young blonde woman burst out of the stairwell door and ran directly toward her.

The woman was in her mid-twenties and wearing military fatigues and combat boots. She was shouting at the top of her lungs that there was a man chasing her. Seconds after the woman appeared, a man in black, wearing a ski mask and carrying a handgun, bolted through the door. He quickly started closing the distance between himself and the woman. Thatcher's protective instincts kicked into overdrive. This was why she became a police officer, to protect the innocent.

Thatcher immediately started evaluating the situation. If she was back home in Canada, she would be armed and there would be no question as to how she would stop this man. However, she wasn't allowed to have a weapon in the US, so shooting the bastard wasn't an option. If there was one thing Meg Thatcher prided herself on, it was her ability to assimilate with the indigenous culture. Therefore, after moving here a year ago, she had immediately gone out and purchased the strongest canister of pepper spray legally available. It was currently on her keyring. She quickly aimed it at the assailant and took a defensive stance, waiting for the woman to get clear of her line of fire.

However, the woman in her frantic hysteria, ploughed directly into Thatcher and knocked the pepper spray from her hands.

She grabbed onto the mountie's lapels and keened, "Help me! Please, you've got to save me from him. He's going to kill me!"

Thatcher quickly pushed the young woman behind her and positioned herself between the woman and the masked man with the gun. Just then, she heard a faint voice coming from her coat pocket. It was Vecchio. She dared not react for the fear of what the armed man would do. Hopefully, he would hear what was happening and quickly send help.

With renewed confidence that help was on the way, Thatcher said loudly enough for the detective to hear, "Stop where you are. I am a police officer and you are making a grave mistake."

The man stopped and tilted his hand to the side. She could see a wide grin slowly spread across his face through the cutouts on the mask and a feeling of dread passed through her when she thought she recognized that condescending smirk.

In confirmation of her suspicions, he ripped off the mask and despite herself, Thatcher gasped loudly when she saw Randal K. Bolt standing in front of her. Randal K. Bolt, self-described anarchist and twice convicted terrorist, stood in front of her with his pencil thin mustache and stringy gray ponytail.

"Bolt! You escaped from prison … again?"

Hadn't they just gone through this in the fall when he tried to blow up Fraser and Vecchio, along with the an entire courthouse, including a federal judge?

"That's right, babe. I'm back again for the second time", he spouted with maniacal glee. "Y'see the last time I had my revenge focused on the wrong law enforcement officials. Now, I'm going to get it right. You see, all of my problems can be traced directly back to Canada. So if I can just get rid of the Canadians..."

"You're insane, Randal Bolt," she said in a raised voice to alert Vecchio in case he hadn't heard her the first time.

"Maybe … but at least I'm conscious."

With that, Thatcher felt a sharp stabbing pain in her back of her neck. An instant later, her eyes rolled back in her head and she collapsed unconscious to the hard concrete parking deck.

The blonde "victim" giggled loudly as she held up an empty hypodermic needle, showing it to Bolt. Then, she reached down and picked Thatcher's fur cap off the mountie's head and placed it on her own.

"I'd be careful of that if I were you, buttercup. I did a lot of research on the Mounties while I was incarcerated. Those winter caps are made out of muskrat fur.

"Buttercup" shrugged nonchalantly and spun around slowly in a circle, singing as she turned.

"_Muskrat Susie, Muskrat Sam… do the jitterbug out in Muskrat land…"_

Bolt effortlessly scooped the limp Thatcher into his arms and carried her towards a white panel van.

He called back over his shoulder to the singing blonde, "Alright, alright, enough fooling around. Let's get these clothes off her. I've got the feeling that _Sam's_ going to be a little harder to catch than _Susie_, here."

The little blonde trailed flightily along behind Bolt. "Did you know that Captain and Tennille chose Muskrat Love to sing at a White House dinner honoring the Queen? True fact."

"_Oh God,"_ thought Bolt, _"this blonde's nuttier than the last one."_

**TBC**

**Author's Notes:**

So hopefully, you can now see where I'm going with this and I hope you like it.

Please, Please, Please… if you're out there and you're reading this, let me know by throwing me a review.

9


	4. Chapter 4

**It's Not a Rollercoaster**

**but we can still blame it on Canada **

_**A Due South fanfiction**_

**by**

**CanonAntithesis**

Disclaimer: See chapter one.

**Chapter 4**

After thoroughly explaining the morning's events to Lt Welsh, the older man rubbed his large hand over his face in a move of complete frustration.

"Sooo, Vecchio? What's your POA?"

"My POA?"

"Plan of Action. You're the detective in charge. This is what you've been waiting fo. So what's your next move?"

_This is it, Ray. Don't blow your big chance._

"Right," Vecchio started nervously, "Oh... well, the officers out there have the preliminary info and we'll start questioning them one by one until we can piece together what happened. We're going to concentrate on the two guys who cut out the hole first, and then work our way through the swimmers. One of them must have cut the rope and I'm confident that we'll find him. Fraser's down at the Port Authority going through video tapes to see if he can spot when the body was dumped. And I'll meet up with him at the ME's office this afternoon for the autopsy."

"Do you think the vic is really Canadian?"

"To be honest, Lieutenant, I think it's a little far fetched, but Fraser has some freaky instincts when it comes to these things." Ray inhaled deeply. That went better than he thought and he didn't think he sounded like a complete idiot.

Welsh nodded slowly as Vecchio finished. _Hmmm, he didn't sound like a complete idiot._

"Alright, Vecchio. You seem to have this well in hand. I'll give you all the resources we've got. Right now, this case is our top priority." Of course, a big part of that was because no one was committing any crimes since it was so damn cold, but Vecchio didn't need to know that.

"Thank you, sir. I really appreciate it," Ray replied with more enthusiasm than he normally expressed.

Welsh had already put on his reading glasses and was going back to his weekly reports which were due at the end of the day. Bad weather or not, those reports never stopped.

Ray had his hand on the door when Welsh called out to him.

"Oh, and Vecchio?" He removed his glasses and used them as a pointer to motion to Ray's ruined clothes. "Go down to Booking and get yourself some dry clothes before you catch your death."

"Yes, sir."

"And tell Francesca I need a new cup of coffee."

"Right away, Lieutenant. And this one's on me." Immediately, he realized how that sounded and amended, "But not, literally. I mean I'll pay for it."

"Yeah. I got that."

Fraser rubbed his tired eyes as he pulled another tape from the VHS machine and carefully placed it in the large cardboard box on the floor. He had been watching the video footage of the same tiny section of beach for the past two hours. As dedicated as he was, even Fraser was starting to run down.

He stood quickly and executed ten jumping jacks, followed quickly by ten push ups. His heart rate boosted, he felt his energy renewed and he eagerly picked the next tape out of the box.

The sharp-eyed mountie watched the footage at four times normal speed. He was just about to eject the tape and move on to the next one when he saw a flicker on the television. Benton immediately switched to normal speed and sat, mesmerized by the action playing out on the small screen.

The tape was recorded seven days ago at three o'clock in the morning, but the full moon and the white snow covering the lake made the screen as bright as mid-day. It was almost as cold then as it was now. Therefore, it was with little surprise when Benton saw two heavily bundled figures slowly trudging out onto the frozen lake. From the way two people moved, Fraser presumed that the larger was a man and the smaller was a woman.

They dragged a tarped-covered sled between them. Even though the black and white footage was quite grainy, he could make out when the man removed a chainsaw from the sled and immediately started cutting through the ice.

What proceeded next was exactly what Ray and Benton had surmised. The woman uncovered the sled while the man worked on cutting the hole. Although he was expecting it, Benton inhaled sharply when he saw the nude, pale body lying exposed on the sled. She then took a large coil of rope and tied it around one leg of the body. The other end of the rope was secured to two round objects which Benton thought looked like the weights from a barbell set.

This hole didn't need to be as large as the one for the Polar Bear Club, so the man was able to make quick work of it. Once a square was cut in the ice, they worked together to remove the block, revealing the icy water beneath. They dropped the body next to the hole. Then the man heaved the weights and dropped them into the hole, followed quickly by the body which appeared to be stiff with rigor mortis.

That was something, at least. If rigor mortis had already set in, then Benton could assume that the bullets killed her and the unfortunate victim didn't have to suffer a drowning death, trapped under a frozen lake.

The two individuals shoved the ice block back into the hole, effectively capping it off and resealing it. Benton squinted closely at the screen at what he saw next. The man removed something from his coat pocket - a can of spray paint. He painted a large circle around the opening, thereby marking the spot … for someone.

Benton was anxious to relay this information to Ray. His finger hovered over the stop button when he glanced back at the screen and paused. The woman folded up the tarp, preparing to leave. The man had obviously become overheated during the exertions of their macabre endeavour. He unzipped his large coat, removed the scarf covering his face and the watch cap covering his head. Even with the distance and grainy pixelated black and white footage, Fraser could easily recognize the distinctive goatee and wispy white hair pulled into a tuft of a ponytail.

It was Randal K. Bolt.

Benton ejected the tape, grabbed his discarded uniform items and ran out to find Sophia. He needed to call Ray immediately.

Vecchio reentered the squad room, hoping the chaos would have righted itself while he was gone. As instructed by Welsh, he had reported to Booking in the basement of the building for some 'new' clothes.

Working with some of the less reputable strata of society meant that they weren't always proper attired when they arrived at the station. It also meant that sometimes they weren't dressed at all. Therefore, Booking maintained a box of donated clothes to help out these poor souls. Unfortunately for Ray, the clothing choices looked like Salvation Army rejects.

So here he was, surveying the anarchy of his first big case while wearing a bright pink satin warm-up suit. The guy in Booking swore it was a man's suit and since it was the only thing that came anywhere close to fitting him, he went with it. The footwear choices were even worse than the clothing. That's why he was currently wearing a pair of python zippered ankle pimp boots. He looked like Liberace after a rough night of drinking way too many mojitoes.

"Ray!" Elaine Besbriss, the Civilian Aid, grabbed Vecchio as he exited Welsh's office. She did a double take after looking at him and whispered, "What happened to you?" Quickly followed by, "Nevermind." and "Try to look a little more manly because you really need to talk to these two guys I found."

She tugged over to her desk, which was tucked away in a corner of the large room. Two burly men sat with identical looks of fatigue on their faces.

"Gentleman. This is Detective Vecchio, the detective in charge of this case."

"Ray, this is Mr. Smith and Mr. Jones." At Vecchio's look of amusement, she added, "No, seriously. I checked their ID's. That's their real names."

"Hey, when can we get out of here?" asked Jones.

"Yeah, we didn't do nuttin' wrong," added Smith.

"We'll just see about that," Vecchio said with authority.

Ray stood up a little taller and broader than he would normally, unconsciously trying to compensate for his smaller stature and ridiculous attire. Smith and Jones were at least three inches taller and fifty pounds heavier than he. And they weren't wearing pink satin.

"Okay, guys. Tell Detective Vecchio what you told me," prompted Elaine.

"A-ight. Like we already told the chick," started Jones, "this suit paid us 500 bucks to cut that hole in the ice, but only if we could get it in exactly the right spot."

"Yeah, yeah," added Smith, "and he only gave us half up front. Dude still owes us like a hundred more, right?" He was counting on his fingers and seemed to get lost when his third finger went up.

"$250," Elaine, Ray and Jones said in unison.

"Oh, well, anyway," Smith said as he took up the narrative, "so we trudge out onto the lake this morning at 6AM with a rake and a snow shovel. See, the dude said we had to cut at the spot marked with this bright orange spray paint. 'Cept it's been snowin' for like whole damn winter. Am I right?"

The other nodded in silent agreement.

Jones apparently didn't like Smith's delivery of the events, so he took over.

"You're right, Jimmy. The suit, he gave us an approximate area to search, but we had to rake and shovel and sweep. Hell, I'm not sure this job was worth $500 … and that was before a God damned dead woman popped outta tha water."

"What did he look like, this 'suit'?" Ray asked.

"Kinda like you, man," Smith answered.

Ray self consciously looked down at his clothes and the man amended himself.

"No, no. He weren't no queer." At Ray's angry reaction, Jones corrected himself. "No offense, man. I got a couple of cousins on my ma's side like you. Nicest guys you'll ever meet. Real good at decoratin'. You know what I mean? Anyway, I just mean he was scrawny like you, but shorter."

"Yeah, and kinda nerdy, you know. Like them," Smith pointed out to the bullpen where fully one third of the people there were wearing dark suits and did look kinda nerdy.

"Lawyers…" Ray murmured.

"Yeah, yeah, that's it. He looked like a lawyer from some TV cop show."

Vecchio hopped up and started surveying the room.

"Elaine, where's the list of people we pulled in this morning?"

Elaine quickly handed him a clipboard full of names.

"What was that guy's name?" Ray said to himself as he scanned the list of names. "Ray, Rayney, Rainer. Rainer! That was it. But I don't see it on this list. Are you sure you got everybody?"

"Pretty sure."

"Damn it. I bet that guy snuck away and didn't come in." Looking back at Elaine, he said. "Talk to Dispatch; I need the call sheet from this morning. That guy called here with a report about these nuts swimming in the lake. Find that report; find the audio if you can."

"Got it." Elaine hurried off on her assignment.

Ray knew Elaine wanted to be a sworn officer and he knew she would be a great one, but damn, she was the finest Civilian Aid he had ever seen. Just then, Francesca walked by handing out towels and collecting twenty dollar bills. Ray shook his head sadly.

Turning back to the two men, Vecchio added, "Alright, you two. I need you to repeat everything you just said to Officer …" Vecchio looked around until he spotted a nearby uniformed officer who wasn't being pummeled by angry citizens. "... Ignatius. Joe, take these guys to Interview Room One and get their full statements."

"Again?" complained Jones. "We already told it twice! We got jobs to get to, man."

Vecchio had started to walk away, but turned sharply on his borrowed pimp boots. "Oh yeah, well, I got a murderer to find and he probably paid you to dig that hole, so unless you want to be charged with conspiracy…"

The two men suddenly looked very cooperative.

Smith said, "We're goin', we're goin', but I think we want to talk to a lawyer first."

At least twenty-five people jumped to their feet, whipping out their business cards as if they were ninja throwing stars.

Elaine quickly came back with the audio tape with Rainer's call on it.

"You're an angel, Elaine," Ray said with a smile.

"Yeah, just tell that to the police academy. Maybe they'll let me in."

Elaine's application for the Police Academy had been accepted with flying colors. This was why Francesca was applying for the anticipated opening for a Civilian Aid. Elaine was now just waiting for a spot to open in the competitive school.

Vecchio and Elaine found an empty interview room and listened to the call.

_Chicago Police, 27th Precinct, Sergeant Kowalski speaking._

_Is this the precinct where Ray Vecchio works with that Canadian mountie?_

_Yes, it is sir. May I have your name and phone number?_

_Uhh, it's Thomas Rainer and it's 312-555-1234._

_Thank you, sir. Would you like me connect you, Mr. Rainer?_

_No, I need him and Constable Fraser to come down to Oak Street Beach as soon as they can._

_What seems to be the problem?_

_These crazy people are about to jump in Lake Michigan. Somebody might die._

_Okay. We'll get them out there ASAP, sir._

~click~

Ray slowly reached out a finger and pressed the stop button on the portable cassette player. He then looked at Elaine and saw an open expression of worry on her face. He knew it matched his own.

"Why did he ask for me and Fraser specifically?" Ray asked rhetorically.

"This is starting to sound a little creepy, Ray," Elaine said as she ejected the tape and slipped it into a plastic bag.

"Yeah, yeah it is. We need to find this Rainer guy."

Just then, Huey poked his head in the room.

"We got an address on this lawyer guy. You want Dewey and me to check it out?"

"No. I want to be the one who talks to Rainer."

Huey handed him a slip of paper and Ray read the address.

"Nice neighborhood," Ray said to himself. Looking back up at Huey he said, "We still need to figure out who cut that rope. You two interview the swimmers and see who was in the water when the body popped up. They all seem to know each oth; see if there's anyone here who they didn't know … anyone suspicious."

"Got it!" Huey said as Ray hurried past him and toward the door and his temperamental Riv.

**TBC**

7


End file.
